


look at the stars (look how they shine for you)

by LMoriarty



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7142237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMoriarty/pseuds/LMoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nothing haunts us like the things we don't say," Isabelle said once Clarissa had gotten into bed, visibly startling the queen-to-be. "And once tomorrow's eve has come and gone, I can tell you this: you will be haunted."</p><p>aka: Clarissa Fairchild, a young girl betrothed to King Jonathan, gets confronted by the pretty Isabelle Lightwood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	look at the stars (look how they shine for you)

The first time Clarissa Fairchild saw her, she was destitute of proper coverings and had a glass of finely aged wine hanging loosely between her thin, nimble fingers.

She was stunningly beautiful, in a way that made her look more Greek goddess than above-average mundane. Her skin seemed to glow gold beneath the moonlight, appearing flawless and free of any bumps or bruises. Just looking at her took Clarissa's breath away, and it certainly didn't help that her hair looked like spun silk, curling down past her shoulders and framing her face.

She left — ran like a coward, nonexistent tail between her legs — before the woman could so much as notice her.

The next time they met, Clarissa couldn't even look her in the eyes. Her gaze remained steadily on the woman's chin, unable to raise it any higher; not even when they shook hands and exchanged names and titles. She felt terrible about it, of course; felt sick to her stomach every time she thought of their interaction, if only because of how disrespectful it was. There was a chance that it hurt a little bit to breathe as well, but— Clarissa had a feeling that the causes were completely different. The former was definitely due to mortification, that much was clear, but the latter... well, she was very pretty.

 _Isabelle Lightwood_ was very pretty.

Her name, she decided, fit her excellently. It was exquisite without being overbearingly so, and Clarissa... god, she _loved_ the way it sounded on her tongue.

But then she learned that Isabelle was the kin of Alexander Lightwood, the right hand man of King Jonathan — the very same king that she was betrothed to — and Clarissa had to force herself away from her, had to push away that bubbling attraction and pretend it never even existed. Nobody could ever know about her feelings, not when she was _so close_ to getting the life that her mother had always wanted for her, the life that she had never wanted for herself. But Clarissa owed her mother that much. Jocelyn had died protecting her, after all.

Clarissa had talked to Isabelle a few times after that, mostly out of obligation than having actually wanted to. And then came the night she had been dreading: her last sleep as an unshackled woman.

Part of her was... relieved, perhaps, that it was King Jonathan she was to marry. He was rumored to be cruel, but he had many kind friends and, if nothing else, she could seek refuge in their company. Nobody knew what the king's last name was, though. It varied, depending on who you asked. Lightwood. Herondale. Wayland. Morgenstern. Clarissa liked the last one best, mostly because it was reminiscent of Satan— who, she was convinced, must have been a direct ancestor of the king.

She slipped inside her chambers, gown nearly catching in the arched door. Her room, at the very least, was pretty; there were a lot of greens and silvers, which went fairly well with her red, red, red hair.

"Nothing haunts us like the things we don't say," Isabelle said once Clarissa had gotten into bed, visibly startling the queen-to-be. "And once tomorrow's eve has come and gone, I can tell you this: you will be haunted."

"Excuse me?" Clarissa said, more for appearances than because she was genuinely confused. "There is nothing that I have any obligation to say prior to my marriage with King Jonathan, and certainly nothing I would later regret not saying."

"I will take your word for it, then," said Isabelle. There was a lilt to her voice that made her think that, perhaps, the Lightwood heiress didn't actually believe her.

"I am being honest," Clarissa insisted. The thought of Isabelle thinking otherwise was... genuinely heart wrenching.

She smiled, and it lit up her face in a way smiles scarcely did. "I did not ever claim you were being dishonest," she said. Isabelle tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, an action that likely would have appeared rather modest on anyone else— on her, however, it just... it just looked _good_.

"You did not, no," she agreed, because it was at least partly true, "but you thought it."

"My thoughts," insisted Isabelle, "are none of your concern."

"You have made them my concern by breaking into my chambers," Clarissa assured her. It was not necessarily the truth, all things considered; she was not at all privy to the thoughts of anyone, least of all those of Isabelle. "But I grow tired, and as such I require rest."

She came closer, closer, closer until there was very little space between them. Clarissa was suddenly very aware that this was the same woman she had once spotted nude, realizing with a start that beneath her gown laid stunning curves. "Am I distracting you, my lady?" Isabelle wondered.

"Yes," the queen-to-be confirmed, words coming out more breathy than she had expected. Clarissa hardened her resolve, forced away any thoughts of moonlight, and tried again, " _Yes_."

"You do not sound convinced," she murmured, and crept even closer. Their lips were so close, _too_ close, but Clarissa couldn't — _wouldn't_ — move away. It was wrong of her, especially when she was to marry her brother's best friend in the morning, but Isabelle was _so gorgeous_ and—

"You were right," Clarissa said it before she had a chance to think it over, words slipping out entirely by accident. But she couldn't leave it at that, had to clarify. "There are things that I should— but I cannot say them. Not aloud, not ever."

"Clarissa," Isabelle murmured, and _oh_ it should be illegal for her voice to sound like that, "do you not trust me, my lady? I will not tell a soul."

"I do not wish to marry him," she confessed, and god it felt _so good_ to say that. "I— I don't believe he wants to marry me, either, or at least his subjects do not enjoy the thought of us together. I have on occasion spotted the way they look at me, hatred potent in their eyes. They will not even meet my gaze."

"Perhaps," suggested Isabelle, not the best when it came to pep talks, "they find it difficult to make eye contact with a queen."

Clarissa smiled, but it was tinged with— sadness, maybe, or something similar. "I am not a queen, not yet. I do not wish to be at all. He is not exactly," she flushed red, face nearly the color of her hair, "my type."

"Your type," echoed Isabelle. She was still so very close, and— if she did not lean in and press her lips against Clarissa's soon, she was going to have to do it herself... and that would probably be exceptionally embarrassing for the both of them. "What, exactly, is that?"

And what was she supposed to say to that? Clarissa may have been willing to share her concerns about her marriage, but this— Isabelle was still Alexander's kin, was still an ally of King Jonathan. Even if Clarissa did trust her — and oh god, she _did_ — she knew that there was always going to be a possibility that everything she confessed would go back to her betrothed. If that were to happen... well, it would be bad, to say the least.

Isabelle seemed to pick up on her feelings, because she smiled; it was wide and kind and beautiful and Clarissa could stare at it all evening without growing tired... that is, she could if she had not already been tired. The Lightwood heiress reached forwards and tucked a piece of Clarissa's hair behind her ear, "Do you know who Magnus Bane is?"

She thought it over. "Is he not the court jester, the joker? I believe I heard someone call him the warlock, once... perhaps that is his stage name. Why do you ask?"

"Alexander and him," Isabelle said. Nothing else came, no explanation, but after a moment it just— clicked.

"Does King Jonathan know?" she wondered. Clarissa could not help but doubt it; she had seen the way he went off on tangents about sinners and those who went behind the back of God. Of course, he never directly said 'God'— went on and on and about _Valentine_ ; Clarissa had been told numerous times how fearful King Jonathan's people should be of His wrath and His army, but alas, she could not bring herself to truly believe.

"Of course not," she admitted. Isabelle smiled again, but this one was more withdrawn; much sadder than her previous smile. "Now, I will completely understand if you do not wish for there to be an _us_ , but—"

Clarissa closed the gap between them. She could no longer help herself, and even if she could... she would not want to. And then her lips were on Isabelle's, and oh god was it really supposed to be so magical? She had kissed others before, of course, but this...

This was _intimate_.

All of her other kisses had been— lacking in something important, something fundamental, something essential. But this one, this kiss with Isabelle... it had it, whatever 'it' was, and Clarissa honestly believed that any kiss she were to have thereafter would be a disappointment.

She threaded her fingers through Isabelle's hair, tugging her closer. Clarissa had already closed her eyes, and perhaps the action was more instinct than anything else but— it was a stunningly good kiss, okay, and if she happened to be unable to think straight then that was on Isabelle. Clarissa pulled away, a smile tugging at her lips, "That cannot ever happen again, you know."

"I believe it can," the Lightwood heiress informed her, leaning in once more.

Clarissa stopped her, even though that was the last thing she actually felt like doing. "I am getting _wed_ tomorrow, Isabelle. To a _king_. I cannot simply— I am so sorry, I am, but there will never be an us."

"You could do better than Jonathan," Isabelle assured her. "Call it off, tell him you have fallen in love with a prince back home; someone named Sebastian."

"My _brother_ is named Sebastian."

"A Simon, then. Prince Simon of the— wherever you are from," she declared, smiling. "You deserve more than what Jonathan will give you, Clarissa. You deserve _me_.

"I could do _so much more_ for people if I became a queen," she said, because it was true.

"Your steadfast goodness is exceptionally attractive, but if you marry the king then I will never speak to you again," Isabelle countered, because it was also true. Partly. The first bit, anyways.

Clarissa considered it. "I... do not think I believe you," she decided. "I am much too wonderful to ever consider giving up."

"Agreed," agreed Isabelle. "But so am I and so is my mouth, so how about you stop being selfless for a moment and kiss me again."

"I am not going to call off the wedding," Clarissa confessed.

"Let's deal with that tomorrow."

And this time, when Isabelle leaned in, Clarissa Fairchild did not stop her.

("...I saw you naked once.")

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a huge fan of this, because there's not really much of a plot. That said, I also love it because, for one, it's Clary and Isabelle, and for another, queer girls are my weakness.


End file.
